


The Break-Down

by sebviathan



Series: in between the lines (there's a lot of obscurity) [14]
Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Heavy Angst, M/M, Post-Series, like fucking rip your heart out angst, shawn really only appears via video and mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 15:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6615514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Spencer took off to San Francisco today," he tells her flatly, shrugging off his suit jacket and undoing his tie. "To be with Juliet. He officially shut down Psych. He's gone."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Break-Down

" _The truth is, I am not_ _—_ _"_

Something bubbles up in Carlton's chest, a sort of nauseating panic, and his hand moves to the eject button without even a conscious thought to drive it.

Then he holds the DVD in his hands, and that panic decides to settle in his stomach.

What is he doing? He's waited years to hear it—even if he's always known it, and even if he stopped _really_ caring that Spencer's psychicness was a charade after a mere three years, probably less, even if he knows it doesn't matter—he should put it back in. He should. He should watch it, if only to hear the words.

But isn't knowing that Spencer is _capable_ of saying them good enough?

For a split second Carlton feels a great urge to restart the DVD just to hear Spencer call him his friend again, but that dies when he follows the impulse to break it in half and throw it in the garbage instead.

He doesn't want to hear it.

He doesn't think he could possibly _stand_ to hear it, not now, not when a goodbye is sure to follow. Not ever, really.

And just his luck, he hardly gets a chance to ruminate on that before Brannigan comes into his office—before he has absolutely no choice but to slip back into professionalism, inside and out.

...But perhaps it's actually good luck, as Carlton has no clue what he would have done had he remained alone.

 

*

 

If he's being honest with himself, he's seen it coming ever since Juliet left. Somehow he expected it to take longer.

It's fucking crazy and selfish of him, really. Of course, Carlton was devastated when his partner moved away—but ultimately he was and _is_ happy for her. Not only is it an opportunity that she deserves, but she did it in part for _him_ , so he could be Chief like he's always wanted to be. Hell, it was the only good choice.

Meanwhile, with Spencer... the waiting game for him to follow his girlfriend has felt like being tied up on some railroad tracks, and hoping _desperately_ that the train takes as long as possible to arrive.

(Much more so, hoping that it _never_ arrives.)

That talk he had the other day with Spencer was like hearing the train engine in the distance. And the hug was... well, it didn't last long enough.

And yet _he's_ the one who fucking ended it.

Did he know how much he'd regret not holding on? He doesn't remember. He thinks that he was just in shock, trying not to think about the gravity of the situation—about how soon the train was coming.

All this time Carlton's had to mentally prepare for it, and it still fucking hurts. Because this isn't something you _can_ prepare for, because the goddamn train is _Spencer_ and, _like_ a train, he doesn't care what's in his way. He just passes through.

...Should he have said something?

What could he have said— _"please stay?"_ Yeah, Spencer, please forget your girlfriend and stay behind with me instead. Please. Or _take me with you, please. Somehow. You'll figure it out, you always figure things out. Don't fucking leave me alone here._

No, of course he couldn't have said that. He's not even alone; he's got a family. But it might have felt nice to hear Spencer suggest it, just to know that he didn't _want_ to leave him behind in the dust.

It's too goddamn late. It's been too late for days, now.

 _No, it's not,_ something in the back of his head tells him, and continues to tell him for the rest of the day. _I could call him. Confront him about it. Tell him that I at least deserve a goodbye in person, that he can't do this to me._

Carlton keeps glancing at the phone on his desk with that exact string of thoughts, and subsequently keeps repressing it. Distracting himself. Trying to ignore it, pretend it didn't happen. Up until the end of the day he almost believes it, that Spencer will come back tomorrow begging for a case and everything is normal _and there's nothing to refute it because he didn't even watch the whole video, he didn't_ hear _a goodbye_ _—_

And then, on his drive home from the station, he (subconsciously?) takes a detour and passes the Psych office. The moment he sees that the _psych_ sticker is still on the window, a spark of hope forces him to make a sharp turn and park right outside the small building. It vaguely occurs to Carlton that he's never even hurried like this into a crime scene before.

The door is unlocked, and it seems that most of the stuff is still inside... except for a few taped-up boxes, here and there. He finds himself, on some level... afraid? To step too far into the office, that is. He doesn't want to see the full proof that Spencer's really gone.

After only a few moments of looking around, however, he hears footsteps and practically has a heart attack—

And then when Henry Spencer comes into view, he's filled with a kind of humiliation that makes him _wish_ he could have a heart attack just to get out of it.

"Lassiter?" He doesn't sound judgmental so much as confused. "It's pretty late."

"Yeah, I." Carlton swallows down the lump in his throat. "Just clocked out."

"Well... I've been packing up some boxes. A lot of the stuff in here is technically mine. You know Shawn left hours ago, right? Or... did you not get a video."

The guy actually sounds sorry for him, there. At least Carlton knows it's misplaced.

"Oh, no—I did. I guess, um, I should go—"

"Sure you don't want to help me pack?" Henry asks with a hint of a fatherly laugh. He probably knows that Carlton could use a distraction, and the offer is a bit tempting, but,

"No, I need to go. Got a wife and daughter—you know."

_And I really don't need to torture myself further by staring at these walls and all of Spencer's shit._

It's really over. He's gone.

And Carlton is living in his old house. He and Marlowe have been settled in for about a month now, and in all that time it hasn't stopped feeling weird as hell—and _now_... the idea of going back, going _home_ , makes him fucking nauseous.

But where else could he possibly go?

 

*

 

It's crazy, how Carlton manages to keep a neutral expression when it doesn't even matter—when no one's watching.

And then how he only has to see Marlowe for five seconds and hear "How was your day?" to feel his lower lip tremble. To feel his chest heave and his shoulders slump and his jaw tighten and his cheeks flush in the worst way possible.

Marlowe notices, of course, like she notices everything ( _like Shawn notices everything_ ) and steps closer, lightly touching his face with a look of pity.

"Oh, baby, what's wrong?"

"Spencer took off to San Francisco today," he tells her flatly, shrugging off his suit jacket and undoing his tie. "To be with Juliet. He officially shut down Psych. He's gone."

Her eyes widen in concern, likely both for the situation and for the way Carlton is behaving about it.

"He really just left, just like that?"

"Yep. Won't be bothering me anymore, I guess. Sorry—I know I just got home, but I need a shower."

 

*

 

He doesn't collapse against the bedroom wall, or the bathroom wall, or even the shower wall. He doesn't break down like he thought he might. For several minutes he simply stands under a stream of cold water, stoic as ever. He gets a bit numb, and it's nice.

Carlton can genuinely say that he comes out of the shower feeling better—he's more relaxed, refreshed. Maybe that really was all he needed.

A minute later he's dry, and sitting on the edge of the bed he and Marlowe share, pulling on a clean pair of boxers. Absentmindedly, he scratches at the scar on his shoulder—the exit-wound scar from when he was shot by a Serb in Ed Dixon's cabin. It's not the only scar from a bullet that he has, but he remembers, for just a moment, that Spencer's got one in that exact place. They match, in that odd, morbid way.

His head is in his hands before that thought finishes itself.

And his chest tightens so much that the scar on his shoulder seems to pulse.

He's not delusional, he _knows_ he isn't—but... is he? Did he just imagine all that? Was his and Spencer's... _thing_ , whatever it was, all in his head? Was there really nothing between them in all that time, did Spencer really not—

No, he must have. Carlton's got some problems, but that doesn't mean he can actually delude himself for eight whole years. They had _something_.

He knows they did.

_So why the hell would you DO this to me?_

He's gone, he's really fucking gone. Just like that, Spencer's out of his life, just as quickly as he came in. Technically, Carlton's been waiting on this ever since he showed up—he knew Spencer's track record with commitment, and how little time he spent at each job, how likely it was that he would hop on his motorcycle and drive away out of the blue.

And yet he got attached anyway.

The twisting pain in his gut makes him wish that he could go back in time and tell himself not to bother, that it wouldn't work out. Carlton almost even wants to tell himself not to consider the guy a suspect, to just let Spencer take his money and walk out of the station and never come back, so that he never would have had to deal with all this _in the first place_ _—_

But no— _no_ , no, he can't bring himself to wish that. Just the thought of it makes a storm of guilt that eats him up—because he can't _want_ that, even aside from the fact that he never would have met Juliet, and from all the _pain_ Spencer's caused him...

He simply can't imagine not knowing him.

It's not like they're never going to speak again. If nothing else, Juliet is still his best friend, and Spencer is her boyfriend. Even if Spencer _doesn't_ feel a goddamn thing... he'll still see him again. Eventually.

But that doesn't stop him from feeling so incredibly, _painfully_ alone... like everyone's abandoned him.

When the bedroom door opens, he doesn't know how much time has passed—only that he's still half-naked, and that his eyes hurt from crying and his jaw hurts from gritting his teeth so hard, and even his head hurts from how hard he's been clutching his hair—and that he'd give anything for her not to see him like this.

"Carlton...," she says quietly, closing the door behind her.

Her voice says sadness, and her eyes say confusion. At least for the moment that he looks up at them before turning away, trying to wipe the excess tears and snot off his face.

 _This isn't fair,_ he wants to explain. _He can't just leave me like that, it's not FAIR._

He wants to yell, he wants to scream it in her face, he wants to kick something or punch something or _someone_ or go to the gun range or just do _anything_ but be here, sitting and looking like a disgusting mess—

 _What am I supposed to do? Why do I have to be the one who stays behind with eight years of memories while everyone else gets to move on without me? WHY did I never say anything to him, why did I let it drag on, why did I fucking refuse to be open for even one goddamn second, why was I so scared and why didn't I take any of the thousands of chances_ —

God, no. He feels guilty enough just for _thinking_ any of that so close to her—he couldn't possibly say it. He can't take this out on her.

She hardly has any idea to begin with.

She sits next to him, and he can feel her weight on the bed, and then her hand on his shoulder. And he looks her in the eye, knowing how red his own must be.

"...I miss him," is what he tells her, throat swollen and voice rough. His eyes already begin to tear up again.

Marlowe almost immediately wraps her arms around him, pulling him close and letting him drape himself over her and cry into her shoulder, rubbing a soothing hand through his hair and another over his back. As much as he didn't want to talk to her about it before, her comfort is the best thing he could possibly ask for right now.

Though the look on her face, for a split second before she pulled him in, makes him think that she _knows_ that isn't the half of it.

He doesn't know whether or not that scares him.

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone didn't catch it, the title of the fic is a direct reference to the final episode's title ("the break-up"). 
> 
> Also, if you haven't read _Three Years and Seven Days_ yet, I highly recommend you click that little right-pointing arrow to the final fic in this series and do it. Or even if you've already read it before. Having Lassiter's side of things from this fic fresh in the mind should make the events of 3Y &7D more interesting.
> 
> Personally, I'm going to re-read it (for probably the 5th time or so) right after posting this.


End file.
